On March 31, 2025, the City of Reading will see the full activation of newly installed gates and surveillance cameras along Skyline Drive, a historic roadway atop Mount Penn that has long been a jewel in the city’s crown. These gates, positioned at Duryea Drive and Shearer Road, and at Skyline Drive and List Road, will close automatically each night at 9:00 p.m., restricting access to the area until morning. Accompanied by 11 strategically placed cameras providing real-time, high-definition feeds to law enforcement, the initiative aims to enhance security and deter crime. City officials have assured the public that emergency responders will retain remote access, and popular events like the Easter Dawn Service and Pagoda Hill Climb will proceed unaffected. Yet, as the gates prepare to swing shut for the first time, one cannot help but wonder: is this modest measure a missed opportunity to do so much more for a site steeped in history and potential?
Skyline Drive and the Mount Penn Reservation, home to the iconic Pagoda, are not mere municipal assets—they are testaments to Reading’s resilience and vision. The roadway’s origins trace back to 1932, when, amidst the Great Depression, over 1,200 unemployed workers toiled under President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Works Progress Administration (WPA) to carve out what was then called Skyline Boulevard. Paid a meager five cents an hour, these men constructed a 2.55-mile scenic route and an accompanying stone wall, transforming a rugged mountain ridge into a public treasure. The project, completed in 1935, was more than infrastructure; it was a lifeline, offering dignity through labor rather than charity. A bronze tablet near the Pagoda, unveiled in August 1935, immortalizes their efforts: “Dedicated by the City of Reading, Pennsylvania, to those Citizens, who, in a period of economic depression, labored to build this Boulevard.”
The Pagoda itself, completed in 1908, adds another layer of historical richness. Originally envisioned by William Abbott Witman Sr. as a luxury resort inspired by Asian architecture, its fate shifted when a liquor license was denied, leading to foreclosure and its eventual donation to the city in 1911 by Jonathan Mould. Since then, it has stood as a symbol of community pride, surviving calls for demolition during World War II’s anti-Japanese sentiment and emerging as a beloved landmark. Together, Skyline Drive and the Pagoda embody Reading’s ability to adapt and endure, drawing visitors from across the nation to marvel at their scenic splendor.
Yet, the decision to install gates and cameras feels like a cautious step backward from this legacy of bold ambition. Security is undoubtedly a concern—vandalism has plagued the area intermittently, from the displacement of stone walls in the 1930s to more recent wear and tear. The 2017 reconstruction of Skyline Drive, funded by a $969,000 Multimodal Transportation Grant, addressed some of these issues, adding bike lanes and repairing crumbling sections of the WPA-era wall. But the new gates, while practical, seem to prioritize containment over enhancement. They restrict rather than invite, closing off a space that has historically been defined by its openness to the public.
This narrower vision stands in stark contrast to the expansive ideals articulated by Lebert H Weir, a park expert from the National Recreation Association, who spoke at the boulevard’s dedication on July 1, 1932, and later influenced local perspectives. As reported in the July 2, 1932, Reading Eagle article “New Sky-Line Road Dedicated in Labor’s Name,” Weir declared, “The psalmist did not speak in poetry but literally when he said, ‘I lift mine eyes to the hills from whence my strength cometh.’ In the days to come may the citizens of Reading turn to the hills—to this hill—for strength, for recreation, for the real things of living.” He praised the project’s national significance, noting, “I have had the pleasure of visiting most of the new parks in the United States. I can say to you that while you are one of the smaller cities, the work done here is of a rank among the highest in this country.” Weir saw the boulevard as a step toward a park “any city might be proud to have,” a place of “beauty, a breath of air and the activities of the outdoors, hiking and riding and enlarging our minds with the studies of nature.”
In a July 7, 1932, editorial, Weir’s vision was further elaborated: “Hundreds of automobiles have already climbed Mt. Penn over the new skyline boulevard… This is very fine and as it should be. A beautiful automobile driveway is an asset to any community. But if this is to be the chief use of the skyline boulevard, then it will fall short of being the great public improvement it can be.” He envisioned it not merely as a motor speedway, but as a “service road for the majority”—a means to transport people “thirsty for the fresh air of the woods, hungry for the coolness of mountain trails, eager for the song of birds and all the multitude of simple pleasures that woods and open spaces and sun and air hold.” Weir emphasized its utility, lamenting children “playing under the arches of a bridge in the dirt because they had nowhere else to play,” and urging a park where “at so little cost in money and effort we can spend a great part of our time in that paradise.” His words cast the boulevard as a sacred endeavor, akin to “the dedication of a great cathedral… a new hope and a refreshment of the mind.”
Weir’s vision was practical yet transformative. He noted that while road-building was costly, enhancements like picnic grounds, trails, bird sanctuaries, and athletic fields were “cheap and comparatively easy.” His ideals resonate today: the gates may address a symptom, but they ignore the broader opportunity to enrich the mountain’s purpose. Imagine, instead, what could have been. The installation of these gates could have been paired with a revitalization effort aligning with Weir’s ideals—a chance to elevate Skyline Drive and the Pagoda into a modern destination while honoring their storied past. Historical records brim with unfulfilled dreams for Mount Penn: an 1874 proposal for a grand macadamized drive estimated at $30,000 (a fortune at the time), an 1881 vision of hotels catering to summer boarders, and Weir’s own 1932 call for a park that rivaled the nation’s best. Even as late as 2005, the WPA’s Depression-era projects were lauded for passing the test of time, suggesting a foundation ripe for expansion.
What if the city had seized this moment to install not just gates, but interpretive signage along the drive, recounting the tales of the WPA workers and Witman’s Pagoda dream? Or restored the stone wall to its full 1939 glory, using local labor to echo the original effort? Additional parking areas, picnic groves, or a visitor center near the Pagoda could enhance accessibility without sacrificing natural beauty—fulfilling Weir’s call for utility and drawing the 30,000 visitors recorded in a single 1932 weekend. Moreover, the city could capitalize on this revitalization by charging modest fees for food vendors, live bands, and seasonal activities like craft fairs or guided nature walks, turning the mountain into a vibrant hub that generates revenue while fostering community engagement. Such enhancements could boost tourism—a lifeline for Reading’s economy—while reinforcing the site’s role as a unifying symbol, as reader Gary R. Freyberger argued in a 1992 letter: “Skyline and the Pagoda go hand in hand… symbols of the pride our citizens took back during the depression years.”
The current plan, while functional, lacks this imagination. The gates and cameras will integrate with existing license plate recognition and street surveillance systems, offering law enforcement a sharper eye on the mountain. But this technological overlay feels detached from the human story of Mount Penn. It’s a reactive measure—solving a problem rather than seizing a possibility. The automatic 9:00 p.m. closure may deter late-night mischief, but it also curtails the magic of a moonlit drive, a spectacle Mayor Heber Ermentrout once described as unforgettable in a 1930s Historical Review article. Emergency access ensures safety, yet the broader public is left with less freedom to enjoy a space built for their pleasure.
This is not to dismiss the need for security. The 1935 completion of Skyline Boulevard was followed by reports of vandalism within a year, and the Pagoda’s wooden balconies required a $46,875 refurbishment in 1949 after wartime neglect. Preservation demands vigilance. But preservation alone is not enough—Mount Penn deserves ambition worthy of its history and Weir’s foresight. The 2017 project proved that collaboration between Reading, Alsace, and Lower Alsace townships can yield transformative results; why not build on that momentum now?
As the gates close for the first time on March 31, 2025, Reading stands at a crossroads. The city can settle for a utilitarian fix, or it can dream bigger—reviving the spirit of those Depression-era workers who turned desperation into enduring beauty and embracing Weir’s vision of a mountain park that serves all. Skyline Drive and the Pagoda are more than relics; they are invitations to connect past triumphs with future potential. The gates may keep trouble out, but they also risk locking in a vision too small for a mountain that has always aimed higher.
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